


A Day in the Life

by Tanaqui



Category: Farscape
Genre: Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 20:05:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6871462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanaqui/pseuds/Tanaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life of Pilot and Moya, as they navigate the Uncharted Territories and negotiate the ups and downs of caring for their strange assortment of passengers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Day in the Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silveradept](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silveradept/gifts).



> Set just before the Season 2 episode _2.14 Beware of Dog_. Thanks to my usual beta for her help with this story.

**Arn 1:37:22**

With one part of his mind—a very small part—Pilot runs through the data coming from Moya's internal sensors, looking for anything unusual. He has already dispatched several DRDs at the start of the arn to begin the routine maintenance tasks that fall due on this particular solar day, as well as tasking two DRDs with investigating a possible blockage in the outlets in the amnexus fluid chamber. Commander Crichton was doing laundry a few hours ago and past experience has taught Pilot that the DRDs will probably return with a lost sock or two.

Noting a slight rise in helium levels in Rygel's quarters, Pilot increases the operating rate of the air scrubbers in that section. Further along the same tier, in the chamber occupied by Chiana, the temperature and humidity have become elevated by a few hundredths of a point. Which might be an early warning of a problem with life support, or might not. Briefly—very briefly—Pilot checks the audio sensors and confirms that, yes, Chiana has company, and that both she and Ka D'Argo are apparently quite happy with the current conditions they are experiencing.

Satisfied that all is as it should be on board Moya, Pilot turns his attention to what lies outside. A gentle solar wind from a nearby star system is caressing Moya's skin and she is humming happily to herself. Letting his attention drift further afield, Pilot takes in the beat of a pulsar, the glitter of a spiral galaxy slowing turning around its center, the mounding gas clouds of a nebula, shaded in reds and oranges and blues.

"Beautiful," he murmurs to himself, his attention lingering on the nebula and its shifting patterns.

_You've seen better._ Moya's thought is tinged with amusement.

"It's still beautiful," Pilot counters. "Everything out here is beautiful. More beautiful than I ever imagined when I was a youngling, dreaming of being joined and traveling among the stars."

A wave of happiness at his happiness flows through the connections between them, which are still fizzing with healing and re-growth, but becoming stronger and closer than their first bonding ever was. _That pleases me, Pilot. That pleases me very much._

**Arn 5:53:97**

A faint regular tremor along one of the tiers alerts Pilot to Officer Sun beginning her morning run. At the same time, barely audible chanting breaks the silence in Zhaan's quarters. Pilot increases both the heat and the ambient light, so that Zhaan's meditations will be as fruitful as possible. Two chambers further along, Pilot detects the crunching of crackers and allocates a pair of DRDs to clean up once Rygel has made it out of bed and into the central chamber for a more substantial breakfast. A moment later, Commander Crichton begins making the strange noises—he calls it 'singing'—that always accompany him showering. There is no sign of movement from Chiana's quarters.

Pilot reviews the list of tasks he has compiled that are beyond the DRDs capabilities and which will require some action from Moya's passengers. Commander Crichton is always willing to lend a hand, though his practical knowledge of the functioning of even basic systems is still frequently lacking. Rygel will simply hide and pretend his comms unit is malfunctioning, while the others will do what he asks with more (Zhaan) or less (Chiana) grace. On today's agenda—.

Around him, Moya tenses: a wordless exclamation demanding his attention as clearly as if she had shouted. _There! I heard—._

Pilot directs his attention to where Moya is indicating he should look. At the very edge of Moya's sensor range, he picks up a pulse: a ship's beacon, with a quality like and yet unlike a standard Peacekeeper distress signal. He amplifies the signal and listens carefully, before shaking his head. "It's not him. It's not Talyn. I'm sorry."

Moya resists his conclusion for a few microts and then lets the excitement flow out of her, leaving behind sour disappointment in her veins. _I thought—._

"I know." Pilot reaches out with his thoughts, caressing Moya's mind, while he manipulates the composition of her fluids a little to help soothe and console her. "We will find him soon. I'm sure of it."

**Arn 8:87:41**

Their passengers are busy with the tasks Pilot has requested of them, some with more enthusiasm than others. While they work, Pilot monitors Moya's route through the stars. Information gleaned at the last commerce planet they visited gave them a direction for the next place to take on supplies, and he is searching for the outer beacons that will guide them in.

He monitors Moya, too, glad to note that her distress from earlier has subsided. Now he senses only her normal anxiety about Talyn and constant watchfulness for any signal from him.

His hand is hovering over the control to flush amnexus fluid through one of Moya's lower conduits when the communication system crackles into life with an enraged squawk: "They're frelling at it again!"

Pilot presses the control and suppresses a sigh. "Is there a problem, Dominar?"

"Yes there frelling is! They're frelling at it again!"

"Who is... at what again?" Pilot adopts a soothing tone, though it rarely works to calm Rygel in this mood.

"The trasnik and the trelk! Frelling! Again!"

It takes a moment for Pilot to understand—but only a moment. This has been a constant complaint from Rygel: finding D'Argo and Chiana in mid-recreation in various places throughout Moya.

He recalls, also, that he asked the two of them to check on and consolidate the edible supplies in one of the cargo bays, while Rygel was required to help Crichton complete a repair in Command. "Did Commander Crichton ask you to fetch something from the cargo bay?" Pilot asks in an overly innocent tone, knowing full well the real reason Rygel was not where he was supposed to be.

"No." Rygel's tone is snappish. "I got hungry, all right? I needed a little something to tide me over until lunchtime...."

"Yes, of course." Pilot pauses and then adds, "I will speak to D'Argo and Chiana once they are... finished." He will do no such thing: Rygel has brought this on himself by trying to pilfer food—again. Perhaps another repeat will teach him to at least steal from the Central Chamber, where the theft will be noticed before they run out of food three days from the nearest supply station.

"Good!" The untruth seems to placate Rygel, and his invective reduces to a muttered grumble. Pilot blanks it out while he returns to his usual work.

_Do Ka D'Argo and Chiana wish to procreate?_ Moya asks unexpectedly.

"I believe not." Pilot can sense that, behind the question, Moya is worried about the future of any child born to their passengers. "I believe their DNA is incompatible. I believe they recreate for pleasure."

Moya's mood changes to... sadness? Regret? At last she says quietly, _Peacekeeper Leviathans do not recreate. Are not allowed to recreate. Female Leviathans are provided with gametes, taken from a partner carefully selected to create a Leviathan of the desired kind. But stories are whispered.... From Leviathan to Leviathan, from Pilot to Pilot.... They say that far, far away, far beyond Peacekeeper space, Leviathans may recreate freely. That they choose their partners as they wish, and dance with them among the stars...._

Pilot is silent for a while, imagining the happiness such a dance might bring to Moya. At last he murmurs, half a hope and half a promise, "Perhaps one day, Moya, we will travel that far...."

**Arn 13:42:65**

Pilot checks one last time that Moya is positioned correctly, so that anything she jettisons will be quickly captured by the gravitational pull of a nearby blue giant, before he opens the valves at the rear of her lowest tier. He feels the tension flow out of her, along with the dren that is now spiraling its way toward combustion in the star. He and Moya have been searching for a number of days for the next appropriate release site; while the situation had not yet become critical, it is still a relief to both of them to have found a suitable location and completed the task.

As Pilot closes the valves and prepares to undertake the next step in the process, Aeryn enters his chamber. She has a towel around her neck, and strands of hair are plastered to her face with sweat. Pilot dips his head in greeting. "Officer Sun. Was your afternoon training session satisfactory?"

"Yes, thank you, Pilot." Aeryn rests her hands on the edge of his console. "I thought I'd take my Prowler out for an arn this afternoon, once I've washed up. Unless there's some reason I shouldn't."

Pilot inclines his head. "I can think of no reason for you not to do so, Officer Sun." 

He observes that the frown that has been creasing her forehead does not lift when he approves her request, but he does not press her for an explanation. The two of them have grown to understand each other sufficiently well since she came on board—especially in the last quarter of a cycle—that he can not only tell now when she is troubled but also when to let her share her troubles with him in her own time.

She lets her gaze drift over him, before asking in a cautious tone, "How are things going? With you and Moya?"

"The re-bonding is proceeding well, thank you." He reaches out a hand toward her and she puts her own hand up for a brief touch. "The process is slow but... more effective than my original bonding."

"Good." Still she goes on standing there, frowning. Still Pilot waits. Then she blurts out, "I'm worried about John."

Pilot considers the remark carefully. "Is Commander Crichton sick?"

"No!" Aeryn shakes her head firmly, and then shrugs. "At least, I don't think so. But he keeps... mumbling to himself. I don't remember him doing that before."

"No. Quite." Again, Pilot ponders. "I could assign some DRDs to keep an eye on him, if you wish."

Aeryn is still frowning, but after a moment, she nods. "Yes. Please." She leans forward and strokes the back of her hand down Pilot's face, and he turns his head a little to press against her caress, to answer her unspoken appreciation of their friendship. Then she steps back, all brisk business again. "I'll let you know when I'm ready to take the Prowler out."

"Understood, Officer Sun."

Watching her stride from his chamber, he can feel Moya's attention is also on her. _You care for her. More than the others._

"Yes." Pilot returns to the task which Aeryn interrupted and begins checking the dren levels in Moya's lowest tier. "We have... shared things I have not shared with the others."

_She cares for Crichton. More than the others._

"Yes."

_Why—?_ Pilot has a fuzzy sense of Moya comparing D'Argo and Chiana with Aeryn and Crichton, and discovering she is so puzzled at the similarities and differences that she cannot even frame the questions she would ask.

"Because she was a Peacekeeper," he explains, gently. "She— _we_ —were taught to not care, to not feel. It frightens her, and she hates her fear, and the things that make her afraid."

Moya is silent for a long time, though he can tell she is pondering what he has said. Finally, she says simply, _You are not afraid._

Pilot smiles, letting the pleasure of his smile diffuse out through their connections. "No. I have you."

**Arn 17:11:76**

Pilot closes one file in Moya's databanks and opens another. He likes to devote a couple of arns each day, when circumstances permit, to exploring the knowledge the Peacekeepers have provided. Around him, Moya drowses, half listening to his thoughts as he processes the new information, though she has admitted in the past that many of the topics are of little interest to her.

"Pilot?" Zhaan's hail calls Pilot's attention away from a description of cultural customs on Kanvia.

"Yes, Zhaan?" A quick check tells him she is in the central chamber, preparing the evening meal. While Moya's passengers all take a turn at cooking, Zhaan is the one who most often chooses to make the kitchen her duty for the day. 

"Could you send a couple of DRDs to the central chamber?" Zhaan's exasperation is clear as she adds, "I spilt a nearly full can of kikkerbean meal, and I could do with a little help cleaning up."

"Of course." Pilot presses a few controls to dispatch the DRDs. Noting that the time allocated for his studies is almost over, he reluctantly closes the file.

"And could you let the others know the meal will be ready in 500 microts?" Zhaan adds.

"Of course." Switching to broadcast, Pilot makes the announcement.

Just over 500 microts later, all of Moya's passengers are gathered in the central chamber. Rygel was the first to arrive, spooning stew out of the pot almost before Zhaan set it down. Chiana, the last to appear, nudges at him with her hip, forcing him along the bench so she has room to sit down—and then, after he snarls at her in irritation, snags a handful of marjools from a serving platter beyond his reach and drops them on his plate with a smile, as a peace offering. 

On the other side of the table, Aeryn and D'Argo are discussing the merits of different models of pulse pistols, while Zhaan is explaining to Crichton how she made the sweetened flatbread he is enjoying with his stew. D'Argo replenishes several glasses with fellip nectar without being asked, while Crichton and Aeryn hand dishes around, and make space to put them down again. Chiana is teasing Rygel about exactly how many wives he has, and the noise level is rising, laughter breaking out.

_They seem happy._ Pilot can sense Moya's uncertainty as she observes them for a few microts longer. _Are they happy? Sometimes.... Sometimes, I think they want to leave._

"Sometimes they do. But all families have their disagreements," Pilot points out. "And they always want to stay, in the end."

_Tell them...._

"I will." Pilot projects his image onto the clamshell in the central chamber and coughs to announce his presence.

The others turn and look at him. It's Crichton who says, "Is there a problem, Pilot?"

"No problem, Commander. Merely that Moya and I would like to tell you how very much we enjoy having you all on board."

"We enjoy being on board." D'Argo picks up his glass and raises it in a toast. "To Moya and Pilot—and home."

"To family," Crichton adds, clinking his glass with D'Argo's.

"And to reunions with our missing members," Aeryn finishes, not needing to name Talyn.

The others echo the toast—"Home! Family! Reunion!"—and drink. The glasses are filled again. The conversation flows on. 

_Happy_ , Moya whispers, half to Pilot and half to herself. _Home! Family! Reunion!_

**Arn 19:98:03**

It is late. Inside Moya, it is quiet. Never completely silent: there is always the faint whine of a DRD, the gurgle of fluid in Moya's walls, the whisper of air as a ventilation fan activates. But their passengers have all retired to their quarters, some already asleep, some still preparing for bed. Slowly and steadily, Moya and Pilot and their passengers sail on together through the starry void. Another day is over. Another day is about to begin. Bringing... who knows what?


End file.
